


The Best Of Both Worlds

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley has an imagination, Devious Plans, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Heaven, Hell, Humor, Infernal Bureaucracy, Kissing, M/M, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Reunions, Romance, Secretly Dating, Tension, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22798468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: Adam resets everything after Armageddon, so none of it ever happened. Everything is put back the way it was, with Heaven and Hell none the wiser. But Crowley and Aziraphale are no longer willing to remain hereditary enemies, under the watchful eyes of their superiors. So they come up with an audacious plan that might just work.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 299
Kudos: 887
Collections: Good Omens (Complete works), Most Favs, kashiichan's favourites





	1. No Guts, No Glory

Crowley's been left to wait in a stuffy, leaking room, just off the hallway leading to Beelzebub's office. It's where the Prince puts people who've annoyed them, people they don't want to be comfortable, or people who don't have appointments. Every surface is a crusted, glistening shade of dark brown, exuding enough stickiness and filth that a thousand tetanus shots couldn't save someone from it. Crowley keeps his hands in his pockets, and lets his boots touch as few dubious patches on the floor as possible - which is especially important, since his boots are mostly just pretending to be boots and are, in fact, his feet. 

He's affecting an air of boredom. He's affecting it so hard that he suspects he's cracked two teeth already.

Eventually, what feels like days after he was first shut inside, a stick-thin intern opens the door and gestures for him to follow them. Crowley's taken the long way around, by quite a margin, through badly lit corridors, and a few gloomy, crumbling stairwells, to Beelzebub's office. Which confirms that the prince is definitely annoyed with him, or more likely, with Crowley's appearance throwing their schedule off. 

Beelzebub is sitting on their work throne, a monstrous, sharp-edged thing in a dark, shiny black wood that only grows in hell, and is completely infested with larvae. Heavy chains are looped through every part of it, as if some infernal machinery could whisk the whole thing into the ceiling at a moment's notice. Crowley has no idea if that's an actual thing which it's designed to do, but he wouldn't put it past Hell to trap their own furniture. Beelzebub's office is far from empty, there are at least twenty demons inside already, either standing in a fetid huddle, waiting to plead their cases, or at the sides of the room awaiting punishment. Hastur, Ligur and Caphrius the note-taker, are shadowy figures beside the throne. 

Crowley hadn't expected so many demons to be here. Though this might actually work in his favour. The only thing that Hell likes better than torture and misery is gossip, and what he's planning is most definitely gossip worthy.

"Your request for a meeting was unexpected, Crowley," Beelzebub says, with a quiet air of displeasure. Though that's close enough to their usual voice that he's not too worried. "I don't like unexpected things. But you tend to bring me results, so I'm inclined to let my annoyance slide in favour of discovering what it is that you want." There's still a definite undertone of 'get the fuck on with it,' to that sentence, so Crowley takes a quick step forward and lowers his body a touch more, posture ever so slightly hunched, showing the proper level of respect without looking like he's grovelling. He doesn't want it to feel like he's grovelling, not for what he's hoping to accomplish today.

"I would like your permission to file a 008, Your Grace," Crowley says. He knows it's not worth beating around the bush or working up to it with Beelzebub, they have no appreciation for drama at all. Also, a very low boredom threshold.

Hastur makes an angry, choking noise, from where he's tucked in next to the wormy back of the throne. Crowley's more than used to the Duke directing either bitter jealousy or seething resentment in his direction, along with the familiar stench of fresh corpses. But he's still not sure if mockery constitutes a better mood, or a worse one.

"This is just more of his ridiculous nonsense," Hastur grumbles, into the swarm of flies gently circling the Prince's head. "He's wasting your time."

Beelzebub ignores him. "Why would you need permission for a seduction?" they ask, and the gravelly impatience in their tone definitely suggests that they won't be pleased if Crowley is, in fact, found to be wasting their time. "If it's work then it's already logged in, if it's personal then make sure that no wretched hellspawn result. Other than that Hell has no interest in what you do with your free time, or your performance therein."

There's muttering in the background concerning Crowley's ability to _perform_ , which he chooses to ignore.

"I thought it best to officially request permission for this one," Crowley tells them. "Considering the circumstances." He judges that he's safe to straighten a bit and does so, making a show of tugging his jacket sleeves into some sort of order. It's difficult to impress the Prince, but there are plenty of overlooked co-workers, and minor demons of Hell that like to talk. He wouldn't put it past them to turn a few clothing adjustments into sexy insolence, or a foot shuffle into reckless insubordination. 

Beelzebub has stopped looking annoyed, in favour of something more curious. The insects that had been gently humming around them settle, crawling across the shoulders and collar of their jacket.

"Now this I have to hear." It sounds like a lazy aside, but it's very much an order.

"I want to request permission to attempt the seduction of the angel, Aziraphale," Crowley declares, just loud enough for everyone in the room to accidentally overhear.

The office goes abruptly silent. Until someone loses their grip on a stack of mouldering folders, leading to a slow, sliding rush of papers that flap and rustle floorwards in a wave of sound, before the astonished silence falls again. It's a thick, grubby, horrified sort of silence. Crowley decides that's probably a good start. Honestly, it's a shame Aziraphale isn't here, the angel loves a good dramatic moment.

"Angels can't be seduced," Beelzebub says slowly. "It's _impossible_." 

"That's what I thought to start with," Crowley agrees with a nod, because it's the easiest way to completely avoid suggesting that Beelzebub could be wrong about something. He can't help but notice that he has the entire room's attention now. Whether he wants it or not. 

He chances another cautious step forward.

"But then I realised that maybe I'd been going about it all wrong. You can't get to an angel with _lust_ ," Crowley explains, as if everyone already knows that. "No, they'd spot lust a mile away. They'd catch a demon wiling at them in a heartbeat with one of the big ones. Trying a Temptation on one of them? Well, they're prepared for that, aren't they? No, you have to be smarter than that, I thought. You have to use their own weapons against them."

"What, like spears and stuff?" A demon in the fetid huddle to his left seems to have found a thought and is carefully following it. "Aren't they holy? We couldn't pick 'em up without getting burnt." Someone hits him until he shuts up.

Beelzebub impatiently waves Crowley to continue.

"Aziraphale, well, he's clever and he's strong, but he's _soft_ , he's _kind_." Crowley spits the words out like they'll stick to him if he doesn't, makes certain his mouth twists unpleasantly around the shape of them. "And they're his weaknesses, I just hadn't thought to try exploiting them. That's much harder that is, especially for a demon. You have to be sneaky, you have to be creative, you have to _pretend_."

Crowley knows that better than anyone.

Pretend you don't love them. Pretend you wouldn't do anything for them. Pretend you hadn't been throwing blessings around for them for a thousand years. Pretend that you're enemies. Pretend that you don't know every one of their favourite desserts. Pretend that you don't constantly wonder what it would be like to kiss them.

He's had more practice than anyone in creation at pretending.

"Aziraphale," Crowley continues, dragging the angel's name out in a way he only ever pronounces it in Hell. He doesn't dare to say it the right way, because he knows how many layers he's given it over the years. He knows that he's never spat it in anger, never used it as an insult, never done anything but indulge it in his mouth. "He wants to think the best of people, he wants to be trusted, wants to be listened to. It's their flock mentality, isn't it? They get lonely easily when they're on their own. I could play up the whole 'abandoned on earth by our superiors,' angle. Just the two of us isn't it? I can convince the angel that I've...grown attached to him, that he's become someone I feel possessive over, someone I want to be around, someone I would do the occasional - the occasional good deed for." Crowley grimaces to show how much the thought pains him. Good deeds, what would he know about them, never met a good deed in his life. "If I can get him to trust me, if I can make him believe he's a good influence on me, encourage him to think of me as a...as a companion, then I could wile my way into his life, enough so that maybe he'd miss me when I was gone, seek me out. Perhaps I could even make him love me."

A jar of something black and sticky hits the floor, there are several wet noises of shock, and someone sounds like they're being strangled. It takes Crowley a second to work out that it's Hastur.

"How do you think of these grotesque things?" the Duke spits, pale face twisted in horror and revulsion. "It's _obscene_."

Beelzebub waves the Duke silent, focus still entirely on Crowley.

"And you genuinely believe that you can do this?" Their expression looks extremely dubious, but still somehow fascinated. Which was exactly what Crowley was hoping for. It's a look that says that this is clearly _unthinkable_ and _impossible_. But Crowley has thought of it, and now he's going to try and do it. "You think that you can convincingly fake interest in the angel, long term? You genuinely believe you could make an angel trust you?" 

Crowley hopes his expression looks appropriately confident, with just a hint of reckless bravado. The assembled demons have started muttering quietly in the background, in varying levels of audibility. 

"The plan relies on it, your Grace. I'm not saying it won't be a challenge, but I think we all know I like a bit of a challenge. I've been practising my adoring looks, seeing if the angel would be in any way receptive to them, as Hastur's probably already reported - and his interference almost ruined my plan before it had even started." Crowley takes a moment to stare over the top of his glasses at Hastur, who's still lurking in a cloud of stench and ragged clothing beside the throne. "I've also been researching which specific displays of affection, and which gifts, will best convince the angel that I've developed some sort of sick attachment to him."

Beelzebub grimaces, as if the thought upsets them.

"He'll be smited on the spot if he tries anything," Hastur grinds out, and he clearly seems amused by the idea of it.

"Actually, I've already had promising signs," Crowley protests, if only to see if he can make Hastur pull faces again, because disgusting the Duke is surprisingly satisfying. "If you'll refer to the last report sent in, I'm sure it will show that the angel failed to smite me twice the last time we exchanged veiled insults, not only that, he invited me into his bookshop when it started raining, he even offered me _tea._ " 

He stops there, to react appropriately to the shocked noises in the background. Someone asks if he drank the tea - which provokes a thumping noise, and a hiss of ' _of course he didn't_.' Crowley has often thought that if you wile well enough that other people will end up doing at least half the job for you.

"Now, before I started my cautious attempts at 'friendship,' the angel would have left me in the street, or maybe even made a show of it, threatened a smite or two. But he's lonely, and desperate for company, the other angels seem uninterested in him, and I've heard him complain that they share none of his interests. I've been his adversary for years, I know what he likes, I know what his interests are. I'm confident that I can find an opportunity to convince him that I'm harmless, that I could be company for him, that I could be a friend - and then perhaps more than a friend. Humans do it all the time, relationships started under false pretences, for material gain, or for personal pleasure. They've written books on it, that's as demonic as it gets that is, _using people_ , what with all the lying, greed, infidelity and simmering resentment? It'll only take a bit of time to refine it for an angel, and because it's a human thing the angel won't see it coming. It's perfect." Crowley fails to mention that Aziraphale is the one who provided him with the books. 

Beelzebub is now leaning forward, considering Crowley, and hopefully his very sensible and obviously very demonic plan. 

"I've read your reports, Crowley. The angel, Aziraphale, seems to enjoy indulging in human pursuits, food and drink, and _outings_. If he falls for your ruse he may expect...physical affection from you. Are you actually prepared to -" Beelzebub seems to be containing a shudder. "To touch his corporation, or to let him touch yours?"

There are several horrified faces in the back of the room, someone makes an overly dramatic noise of disgust, and someone else is pretending to be sick, to the obvious hilarity of his friends. A few of them start debating whether angels can ejaculate, and if their bodily fluids would burn like holy water. Which is swiftly followed by an extremely crude description of how Crowley is likely to die.

Crowley forcibly tunes them out.

"It's a possibility I've accounted for," he says, as if he's admitting something horribly unpleasant that he may have to take part in. And not, in any way, something he's been dreaming about for millennia. "And, if necessary, I'm confident I can act well enough not to make my revulsion obvious."

Hastur's revulsion is certainly obvious, but he couldn't act his way out of a dark corner.

"If not, well, I'm sure a bit of reluctance can be explained away. I'll make a big show about how difficult it is for me. I'm being a filthy traitor to my own kind, aren't I?" Crowley makes it sound very reasonable indeed, and instead of dunking him in holy water for his honesty, half the room is nodding in understanding.

"And if it works?" Beelzebub's expression of disbelief has been slowly twisting into something more curious, something that's willing to be convinced. "If the angel accepts that your advances are genuine and decides to share -" they stop, seemingly floundering for an appropriate description. Crowley flatly refuses to help at this point, because he feels like he's done enough already. "Intimacies," Beelzebub finishes, cringing slightly. "What then?"

Hastur gives a high whine of distress, and looks as if he'd rather be a pile of maggots literally anywhere else.

"Then I'm corrupting an angel," Crowley says immediately, both hands raised as he chances a look around the room. He finds a variety of expressions ranging from horrified disgust all the way up to disbelieving awe. "I'm worming my way into his personal space, where he's vulnerable. Getting my hands all over Heaven's property, defiling his base of operations and possibly even the angel himself. If my plan goes well enough I can sneak the odd bit of useful information from upstairs, find out what they're up to. Meanwhile, the angel's too busy thinking his goodness is rubbing off on me, thinking I actually have feelings for him, to foil any of my schemes, or to thwart any of my wiles. There's even the possibility, if I could keep it up for long enough, a few centuries or so, until the angel really trusts me - well, I'm not saying I could make him Fall -" Crowley forcibly turns his quiet choking noise into a smug, coughing laugh. "But if it did happen, I'm sure that'd be worth more than a commendation. There'd be a title in it for me, maybe, one of those fancy fortresses in the fourth circle?" Hell would appreciate the greed, loves a bit of greed does Hell. 

Crowley suspects this is the point where Aziraphale would be cautioning him not to overdo it. But Hell also loves a bit of bragging, a bit of devious brilliance, and a heavy scoop of reckless stupidity. Crowley's plan has it in spades. Though he suspects Aziraphale would remind him that the devious plan was something of a joint effort. His beautiful, clever bastard of an angel - and that's the thing that makes him smile, wide and satisfied and _proud_.

That's the smile that they believe.

"Until the angel discovers your treachery and smites you," Beelzebub points out flatly, as if it doesn't matter to them one way or the other. Though Crowley suspects this is the sticking point, Hell can't afford to go throwing their assets away for nothing. Beelzebub needs to weigh the odds that he'll actually succeed. They need to decide how good they think Crowley is. Which, he hopes, is where all his fucking commendations, for shit he didn't do, are actually going to help him for once.

Crowley sucks his teeth dramatically, rocks back on his heels and nods energetically.

"Yes, obviously, I'll admit, it's a big risk, very dangerous, never been done before. But I'm prepared to take it, you know what they say, no guts, no glory." He thinks that's a pretty good joke, all things considered.

No one laughs.

Hell, always a tough bloody crowd.

Beelzebub is silent for a long minute, and then they lean forward and gesture with a hand. Crowley takes a bowing step towards them, retrieving the form from his pocket and holding it out, so Beelzebub can lay a finger at the bottom, drag it swiftly through the lines of their name. Their sigil burns into the document, a sweep of fire and unholy will. It smokes gently once the flame dies. The form is suddenly heavier, no longer just sickly paper, but something more infernal and concrete. 

"Permission to seduce the angel Aziraphale into a 'relationship' for the possible advancement of Hell's cause, _granted_."

Crowley's teeth grind together so hard they creak, holding his mouth carefully in a thin, tight line. He gives a nod which he judges to be appropriately obsequious and grateful - he's employee of the fucking millennium he is. Then he finishes with a low, deep bow, heart pounding madly in his chest, even though he was fairly certain that he'd stopped all of his body's functions the moment he entered Hell.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

An intern shuffles forward, takes the form from him and adds it to her thick pile, before disappearing with it. Crowley knows it will be filed somewhere in the very depths of Hell. He honestly doesn't know where, the same place all the ledgers of sinners and infernal contracts go, he supposes. The only person who can retrieve those is Lucifer himself.

Beelzebub grunts protest. "Don't thank me, I'm half convinced you'll end up drenched in Holy Water for your fucking audacity. Dismissed, Crowley."

He bows again, and backs towards the door. Though he can still hear the muttered comments perfectly well, the disgust and the disbelief, the occasional laugh. Until Beelzebub's voice cuts them all off.

"And for all of you who are finding this amusing, know that it only proves your lack of worth. Since I doubt any of you would be as willing to debase yourself so thoroughly for Hell -"

Crowley lets the door shut behind him, wood smacking him sharply on the arse. He plasters a slightly smug smile on his face, and saunters his way back through the narrow, cramped corridors of Hell to the lift. He's tempted to whistle but he thinks that would be too much. He doesn't want to look like he's completely lost his fucking mind.

He stabs the lift button for earth, listens to the grating whine of infernal machinery. Then he stares at his own, pale reflection in the surface of the doors. His smug smile is oddly frozen, and his hair has wilted in Hell's sulphurous atmosphere. 

He can't relax yet, not yet.

"It's all on you now, angel."


	2. A Blessing In Disguise

Gabriel's office isn't so much a separated office area as it is a large, white space, set apart from the much larger white space around it, contained within the infinite white space that is Heaven. There's a large desk in the centre of the room, which holds nothing but a long nameplate, which has Gabriel's name, and his most important titles on it, embossed in gold.

The accepted pace of linear time is somewhat more fuzzy in Heaven, so technically Aziraphale could have been waiting to see Gabriel for no time at all. Though he feels like he'd missed lunch, so it's probably been about four hours. He's already resigned himself to waiting considerably longer than that, to skipping days on earth waiting to be seen, if necessary.

There's a long, silent line of angels waiting behind him too, half of them distracted by the scrolling glow of their Heavenly information tablets. Aziraphale rather missed the handout of those, but since he contacts upstairs so infrequently the lack of one hadn't seemed terribly important. He feels as if, perhaps, he should make a point to requisition one. Keeping on top of what's going on in Heaven may be an important consideration, if all goes well.

The angel at the front of the line quietly wheels into Gabriel's office, and Aziraphale obediently shuffles forward, exactly fourteen inches. He'd argued with Crowley once, about which side had invented queuing - and it turned out that both sides adopted the practice at much the same time, though for very different reasons. Queue-jumping, however, was almost certainly invented by Hell, and thus remains terribly out of reach. Aziraphale knows that he has to be patient, things have always moved slowly in Heaven, glacially in some cases, it's to be expected. There is an order to things here, and no amount of sighing, or foot tapping, or peering up the line muttering about loyalty cards will in any way change that. Though the thought of Crowley shoving himself between two carefully tailored angels, and ruining the order of the line completely, with a bitten out ' _we're in a hurry, no time to wait, you know how it is_ ,' does leave him with a particular sort of warmth in the region of his chest.

Aziraphale had originally resisted the urge to fidget, he'd held himself in a manner that was both carefully controlled, and patient - until it had occurred to him that Gabriel would likely be expecting him to appear nervous, to fuss in his familiar, annoying manner, because that's the way he's always reacted, when called to account for himself, or been visited with a surprise inspection. A fact which he knows hasn't always given the best impression. But appearing too calm would perhaps be more obvious, more telling, so he'd let himself fidget, just a touch, enough to not be suspicious.

Movement at the head of the queue leaves him stepping forward again, exactly fourteen inches - for a given value of both 'fourteen,' and 'inches,' in the unique geometry of Heaven.

Aziraphale knows exactly what he's going to say, exactly how he's going to phrase his request, and he also knows how he's going to reply to every possible one of Gabriel's expected protests to it. It's just a matter of knowing what Heaven wants. Of knowing what they expect of him. Or, more precisely, what they expect him to be, how they expect him to behave. Everything relies on him knowing the answer to that.

There are many slow and tedious advances of exactly fourteen inches, before he finds himself at the front of the queue, nothing ahead of him but the white, formless, featureless expanse of Heaven. A place that, by all accounts, he should find soothing, that he should find comforting. Instead he tugs and pulls and rotates the ring on his smallest finger, and wishes guiltily, desperately, that he were anywhere else.

The emptiness here is a point in his favour. Crowley had explained that his own meeting should take place with as many demons as possible present. Both because they would likely feed on each other's reactions, and to make Beelzebub feel confident in their power. There was apparently nothing that the higher ranks of Hell enjoyed more than shouting lower demons down, and dismissing their worthless opinions. But Aziraphale knows that other voices here will simply confuse the issue, make Gabriel's reactions unpredictable. It's best to let Gabriel find his own way to the correct decision. 

Aziraphale is simply going to try and steer him a little.

He reacts to the quiet chime by moving forward into the 'office,' presenting himself to the Archangel with a nervous smile, and what he reasons to be a valiant attempt at stillness.

The desk is very large, far more ostentatious than Gabriel needs, since as far as Aziraphale knows he keeps no paperwork and holds no meetings in here. But there had been a few pointed memos about improving efficiency in the 1980's, and some of the ideas seem to have stuck. Aziraphale is very glad that the shoulder pads were not one of them. He'd really not enjoyed the way Heaven had briefly fixated on them.

Gabriel claps his hands together over his bare desk, that contains nothing but his own name in angelic script. It looks freshly polished, Aziraphale finds that he is not surprised in the least.

"Aziraphale, don't see you up here very often. Everything all right down there, things going well. Observations...satisfactorily observed?"

Aziraphale nods, since things are indeed rather quiet at the moment. Almost as if the end of the world didn't just happen.

"Oh, yes, all very satisfactory, nothing to report there."

"You're not finally up here to request a transfer are you?" Gabriel looks as if he'd quite like to encourage that, if it turns out to be true. Since he tends to view earth the same way someone might an aquarium. A beautifully designed habitat, containing strange creatures. Nice to visit but not somewhere you'd want to live, or look at all the time - and certainly the fish are really just fish, at the end of the day. He never has understood Aziraphale's love for any part of it, or his willingness to remain there. "Get yourself a nice posting in Heaven, though you understand it'll take time to train your replacement, and you'll probably have to pitch in with that for a while. Honestly, you look away for five minutes and humans are speaking a different language, inventing things that don't make sense, taking nonsensical amounts of pictures of themselves - you'd think they haven't noticed that they'd invented mirrors already?" He shoots Aziraphale an amused but bewildered expression.

Aziraphale smiles back, gives a small cough of laughter, he's not sure if that was a joke, but it's always best to be safe.

"No, no transfer, I'm afraid. But I have noticed something, and I'd like your permission to pursue it." He forces himself to look earnest, and, above all, _respectful_. 

"Hmm, interesting, tell me more." Gabriel, clearly sensing an opportunity for responsibility, steeples his hands. 

Aziraphale shuffles a touch closer. "As you know I've been thwarting the demon Crowley for many years now. Gosh, we've been combating each other's efforts almost since the beginning, which has certainly been a challenge. He's very clever, constantly thinking up schemes that have kept me on my toes. I like to think that I've held my own over the years, as well as someone could. Years of long experience and all that."

"We appreciate your efforts, Aziraphale," Gabriel tells him. "Your thorough reports and knowledge of human customs and practices have been absolutely invaluable over the years."

Aziraphale smiles, and finds that it's unexpectedly genuine. 

"Oh, that's - that's very good to know, thank you, Gabriel." He clears his throat and pulls a calmness he's not quite feeling both onto his face and into his voice. "However, lately I believe that the demon Crowley has developed a - a fascination with me."

Gabriel frowns. "That's not good."

"No - I mean, yes, perhaps." Aziraphale forces himself to stop fidgeting, and he makes it very obvious that he's made himself stop. This is clearly very serious business. "He's made himself more obvious as I go about my business. His stalking has always been exemplary but now it's nothing less than sloppy and amateurish. It's as if he wants me to notice him. He's been leaving me gifts, chasing other demons out of the area, displaying his intelligence in very obvious ways, and performing only the very lightest of temptations. I called it a fascination but, honestly, it feels more like a desperate bid to impress me, all very demonic and untoward, but I've noticed it, of course I have. I believe he's - I believe that he's become confused, and has started to see my repeated triumphs over him as a sort of - a sort of courtship display."

Gabriel looks confused himself. "A courtship display...like peacocks?"

"Yes," Aziraphale says, choosing to grasp at Gabriel's very limited knowledge of the animal kingdom. "Yes, exactly like that, well spotted. I've heard that demons behave in such a fashion, and my...well, my repeated trouncing of him seems to have him convinced that I'm an appropriately worthy place to lay his fixation. Demons are incapable of love, obviously, but they are terribly greedy and jealous, very territorial about things which they view as theirs, things they've become strangely obsessed with. I believe that our long periods of close proximity, our long and hard fought battles, have led him to assume that I would be open to...to his intentions."

Gabriel's frown has been slowly deepening. Aziraphale decides that this is a good place to stop and allow the Archangel to voice any thoughts he may have. Since it would be very helpful to know what they currently are.

"This is very grave news, Aziraphale," Gabriel says, into what Aziraphale hopes feels like a pause for guidance. "Do you believe yourself to be in danger of...demonic interference?"

Aziraphale takes a moment to consider whether Gabriel actually knows what 'demonic interference' would entail, or whether he'd just seen it in someone's report and thought it sounded appropriately menacing. He suspects it would be best to assume that Gabriel does, in fact, know the many ways an angel could be interfered with, both demonically and otherwise.

"No, no interference, he seems more hopeful than actively menacing. I thought if I was to - to encourage the behaviour that it could perhaps -" 

Gabriel is already shaking his head. "Aziraphale I can't in good conscience allow you to encourage the demon's sick fascination with you."

"It is, of course, very unseemly." Aziraphale takes a moment to wring his hands, but decides a wince will be too much as this point. "Though I've noticed that his wiling has been significantly less well thought out lately. His demonic schemes half-hearted at best. They now seemed designed less as ways to encourage the fomenting of evil and more, well, more as desperate attempts to get my attention. His distracted pursuit of me has caused demonic schemes in the whole of Britain to fall by almost two thirds."

Gabriel is still frowning, but there's a surprised noise too, and Aziraphale suspects that now might be a good time to add kindling to this very small fire.

"This is the only reason I brought this to you, of course. Since his strange infatuation with me is, without doubt, forwarding Heaven's cause on earth. No matter how distasteful the idea, I felt like you needed to hear it for yourself, to consider the evidence. To decide if you thought I should keep him in much closer proximity, perhaps even start to give him hope that his attentions were well-received, hope that I might, in time, even return his feelings. Since then I could accomplish a great deal of thwarting without endangering others, or ending up in any messy altercations with unexpected demons, leading to small and consistent victories against the forces of evil. Not to mention, Crowley - the demon - is naturally very talkative, and has a desperate desire to impress me with of how wily and clever he is. His feelings for me would be an excellent opportunity, don't you think, to try and acquire information about Hell's plans?"

Gabriel seems to realise he's nodding along, and makes himself stop.

"This seems like it could be unacceptably dangerous," he says instead. "How would you even...spend time with a demon."

Aziraphale makes a noise that he hopes conveys that Gabriel has made an excellent point. 

"Well, he knows that I enjoy human pursuits. He already attempts to follow me on my information gathering trips to museums, libraries, galleries and other places humans like to gather. It would be simple enough to offer him an invitation. To let him believe that I am becoming fond of him. I could even take him to dinner with me -" Aziraphale doesn't miss the way Gabriel's frown pulls down a notch. "Of course, I wouldn't be able to actually eat any of it. It would simply have to be a pretence. The risk that the demon might try to lace it with illicit substances would be too great," He forces himself to sound appropriately mournful. "I would probably have to be more cautious about eating at all."

Aziraphale sighs at Gabriel's considering noise. Then hurries on before the Archangel can offer a protest.

"I understand, you're right, of course. It would not only be dangerous but also a considerable investment of time and energy, I'd have to send in more thorough reports, keep myself more up to date with Heavenly procedure, and be prepared to smite the demon at a moment's notice. I'd really have to buckle down, be more watchful in case of betrayal. I'd have very little time for my own pursuits, no time at all to acquire new books for my shop." Aziraphale makes himself frown, and then looks at Gabriel, as if he's just remembered he's there, and acts appropriately chastised.

Gabriel's face is unexpectedly complicated, and Aziraphale isn't quite sure what his next reply will be, though he has a variety of responses for several possible options. A variety of responses for the possible replies to those, and a few daring possibilities after that, if Gabriel proves to be stubborn. And, if this somehow goes very badly, there's always what he's been privately calling the last resort - which Crowley had mockingly dubbed, 'the nuclear option.' Aziraphale doesn't want to use that unless absolutely necessary. 

"Aziraphale, you understand that - that demons are lustful creatures." Gabriel's expression is somewhere between cautious and wildly uncomfortable. "If you encourage the demon's attentions he may take that as permission to - to satisfy his perverse needs with you."

Ah.

The Archangel Gabriel apparently does know what demonic interference entails.

"Yes, of course, I'm quite aware that he may require regular _physical reassurance_ of my supposed feelings for him." Aziraphale decides that wringing his hands will definitely be a bad look here. Though at this point, he finds himself desperately wishing that he could. This is not a conversation he's enjoying overly, but needs must.

"If this demon really is infatuated with you then that infatuation will most certainly involve foul intentions upon your corporation, disturbing demonic lusts that it wouldn't be right to allow you to subject yourself to. I simply can't allow it." Gabriel looks reluctant though, after everything else Aziraphale has offered.

"I was worried about that myself," Aziraphale agrees. "But after some research I believe I've found a solution to that disturbing problem. My sources have found that demons find physical punishment incredibly arousing. They also find intense satisfaction in being restrained, held down, berated and soundly punished, and there are many tools to accomplish such a thing, that would not require me to touch the demon at all. I could acquire a variety of whips, canes, hard and soft paddles - many, many _punishment implements_. And if that isn't satisfactory then they also enjoy having all manner of objects, umm, inserted into them. Apparently they find that very pleasurable." Aziraphale shakes his head, hopes that it conveys the right message. The message being 'those demons and their terrible, demonic ways. How could we, as angels, possibly hope to understand their vile desires.'

Gabriel's eyes are strangely wide. He looks as if he's attempting to process unexpected and disturbing information.

Too much? Aziraphale wonders.

"Really?" Gabriel sounds half curious and half horrified. "They enjoy being..."

Aziraphale nods. "Yes, I suspect I could satisfy most of the demon's baser needs with only the occasional interference to my own corporation. If anything it would only cement my position as his rightful superior, in his mind. The fact that I was willing to see to his needs by punishing him, as he deserves to be punished, of course." Aziraphale very unhelpfully pictures Crowley's face at this point, which would be decidedly unimpressed with this whole conversation. But unfortunately it's all rather necessary.

Gabriel's hum of surprise sounds almost approving, clearly the thought of Aziraphale punishing a demon appeals to him. 

"Though I understand that some demonic courtships can be very long, drawn-out affairs," Aziraphale adds. "It might take a while to completely gain his trust."

Gabriel frowns. "So, what, a few thousand years?"

Aziraphale blinks. He'd quite forgotten Heaven's complete inability to live in the moment. He absolutely forces himself to not make any sort of noise in reaction to the question.

"Yes, that sounds about right," he says carefully.

Gabriel's nodding, as if he's considering the plan. Aziraphale can feel him bending, though he feels that any extra pressure at this point may just snap the branch. Eventually Gabriel clasps his hands together tightly, and looks at Aziraphale over them.

"You'd have to - well, you'd have to buckle down. You couldn't be slacking off if you were to be spending time around a demon, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale attempts to look appropriately angelic. "Of course, I understand completely." 

"And you'll smite him the moment you feel yourself to be in danger," Gabriel insists. "Without hesitation."

Aziraphale nods firmly. "The very moment I feel threatened by the demon, Crowley, I promise I will not hesitate to smite him."

Gabriel waves a hand, and a gold-edged scroll appears on his desk, already half unrolled.

"Aziraphale, your new task on earth will be to take the demon Crowley in hand, in whatever way you think best, in order to thwart Hell's current and future plans. And to acquire knowledge about the inner workings of Hell, and their movements and intentions on earth, if possible."

Aziraphale exhales in one long burst, breathing is quite unnecessary in Heaven, but it's a difficult habit to break. Humans are surprisingly adept at noticing when someone's not breathing. Which had once necessitated his rather embarrassing rescue from vampire hunters in Romania. Crowley had found it terribly amusing for years afterwards. It always surprises him how many of his favourite memories are of the two of them. Foolish. He was so terribly foolish.

"I'm very grateful for the responsibility and the opportunity you've given me." Aziraphale doesn't have to try to make that sound genuine. It's the most honest thing he's ever said to Gabriel.

Gabriel summons a gold pen out of the ether, and then hands it over. Aziraphale shuffles forward and takes it, bending at the waist to lay his name at the bottom of the scroll.

"I want yearly reports on the matter. Don't take any unnecessary risks. I'm giving you full permissions to use holy water on the demon if it becomes necessary." 

The pen messily scratches right through the end of his name, though Gabriel doesn't seem to notice.

"Thank you, Gabriel," he says, voice cracking a little. "That's very - that's very generous of you. I appreciate your support."

"It's a very brave thing you're doing, Aziraphale."

"Well, one does what one can," Aziraphale says firmly, before straightening and carefully handing him back the pen.

Gabriel adds his own signature, and then disappears both items.

"I'll let earth observation know not to make themselves too obvious. The demon will need to believe that you're not going to move against him." Gabriel takes a moment to look him up and down. "Are you going to - er - do anything about the corporation, or the clothes. How exactly does someone make themself appealing to demons anyway?"

Aziraphale manages not to lose his smile, though if there are a few more teeth in it than before, well, he can't be blamed.

"I thought it best not to change too much."

Gabriel looks disappointed.

_Oh, honestly_.

"Perhaps I'll have something new tailored," Aziraphale says, reluctantly, and he doesn't have to fake that at all.

"That's the spirit." Gabriel reaches over and smacks him on the shoulder. "Send up your next report in six months, I'll be waiting for it. Good luck, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale inclines his head, then takes himself out of Gabriel's office, back past the line of patient, near-motionless angels waiting to be seen. He heads to the long escalator that leads to what in any other building would be the lobby. But here, is the complicated transition between Heaven and earth.

The thought of him having succeeded and Crowley having failed is unbearable.

He refuses to accept the possibility.

Please.

_Please._


	3. Speak Of The Devil

Crowley has no way of knowing how things have turned out for Aziraphale, no way of knowing if their insane plan has made it past both their superiors. But he decides he's going to believe that it has, because imagining the alternative will only leave him twisting in misery, for as long as it takes to see Aziraphale again. To think about the fact that he has to wait, to find out whether they've succeeded, or failed. To find out whether there's any hope for them - 

No, Crowley's going to believe that when it's time, he can drive to the bookshop, park right outside and saunter his way up the steps like he belongs there. He'll have gifts, he'll look the part, and he'll knock on the door like a suitor, because the angel deserves the effort, he deserves a bit of pomp and ceremony. They won't be able to slip back into their comfortable routine straight away, they'll have to leave it a while, they'll have to build back up to it. It'll be too suspicious if Crowley's around all the time, even more suspicious if Aziraphale lets him. It will be too fast for the both of them - painfully ironic as that may be.

This time he'll do it properly, and it will look everything like a carefully thought out plan to Hell, everything like a solid gold seduction. It'll look like Crowley is just the cleverest, wiliest demon who ever Fell, trying to cosy up to an angel, for favours and sweetness and nuggets of information from Heaven. 

But it won't be that. It won't be that at all. It will be Crowley inviting Aziraphale out where anyone can see. It will be flowers, and chocolates, and dinner at the fanciest restaurants he can name. It will be theatres, and book fairs, and auctions, and long drives in the country. It will be hand-holding, and boxed up desserts, and every new book Aziraphale so much as looks at. It will be _everything_ they've never been able to have, all with the approval of both Heaven and Hell. Aziraphale will know, and that's all Crowley cares about, that's all that matters to him.

And when it's been long enough to look like just another temptation, expertly done. When it's believable that both of them might bend a little, might let each other in a little. When Hell and Heaven have had their fill of watching them play each other, Aziraphale will invite him into the bookshop, shut the door behind him, and they'll be together again. They'll lounge together like they used to - better than they used to, with no need to fear Heaven or Hell. They'll drink wine, and snipe about their superiors, and discuss new inventions, new stories, new menus. They'll drink until they're warm and heavy against each other, and Crowley will somehow find his hand in Aziraphale's hair, won't be able to resist turning into him, until they're kissing, eagerly and desperately, and a little drunkenly. Only this time, Aziraphale won't pull away, he won't make a soft, broken sound and tell Crowley that they can't, that it's impossible. This time they'll keep kissing, and they won't stop until the sun rises.

Crowley's hands squeeze round the wheel of the Bentley, and he forces himself to turn the opposite way, to drive back to his flat, rather than where he desperately wants to be instead. Even though his part is done, everything inside him is still tangled and twisted into knots. Because Aziraphale just needs to have done the impossible. Aziraphale just needs to have convinced Heaven to let him do everything angels aren't supposed to do. Crowley's not stupid, he knows he had the easier job by far. It's what demons do, isn't it? It's in their nature, lying and manipulating, defiling pure things, being reckless and stupid and cruel, making certain that the worst things people thought about them always came true?

Oh, Crowley trusts Aziraphale, and he has more faith than the angel will ever know in his ability to stubbornly manipulate his way to the things that he wants. But this is the Archangel Gabriel he's facing, who not only knows a fair few of Aziraphale's weak spots, but has made a fucking habit over the years of pressing on them, of pulling them open, of trying to bully Aziraphale into being the angel Heaven wants him to be. To _shame_ him into being the angel they want him to be.

No. Crowley can't think like that. He can't think about what will happen if they're denied, he can't think about the next six thousand years. He can't think about all the things that could go wrong. He can't think about any of that. Aziraphale is the smarter, the stronger and the more stubborn of them by far. Crowley just has to be patient, he has to be patient until Friday. No contact until then. On Friday morning, Crowley will knock on the bookshop door, and he'll know straight away if Aziraphale succeeded or failed.

All he has to do is survive until then.

~

The wait is endless and unbearable, though Crowley's waited much longer in the past, for things he'd cared about far less. He spends most of the week stalking around his flat, moving the few pieces of furniture he has, misting the plants until he's padding through puddles of water, before angrily miracling them dry again, while muttering harshly that they shouldn't mistake this for _weakness_.

But Friday eventually grinds its way into existence.

Crowley dresses like the most expensive demon who's ever come to earth, all clean lines of black and blood-red. He dresses like he hopes to make an impression, dresses like it's the most important seduction he's ever undertaken. He dresses exactly the way Hell would expect him to. Which he has to admit, to his own face in the mirror at least, is both ironic and hilarious. But of course an angel would require the very best, and that is what Crowley is going to give him. Even if Aziraphale somehow failed, even if it turns out this was impossible all along, Crowley can't be - refuses to be - anything less than exactly what's expected. He'll be watched very closely for a while, more closely than he's ever been watched before. By lower demons who can't believe he would dare such a thing. By his co-workers, who are probably expecting Aziraphale to destroy him for even attempting something this obscene. And by his superiors, who likely still don't believe that it's even possible.

He makes one stop, at a florist, nudges his glasses down just enough to judge the colours on their blooms. He's torn between something soft and warm, all greenery and pastel wildflowers, that he thinks Aziraphale would appreciate. Or a ludicrously large bouquet of white roses. He chooses the second with a coughing laugh. Go big or go home. Do or die. He who dares, wins. He honestly doesn't know why his brain is full of useless idioms? Or why they all seem suddenly so very appropriate.

Crowley parks untidily outside the bookshop, in a way that he's sure someone who isn't him could get in terrible trouble for. Then he abandons the car, retrieves the ridiculous bouquet, and saunters his way to the door. He takes the steps, knocks three times, and then he waits, in casual stillness, though his entire being is vibrating in impatient agony.

It takes a frustratingly long time for Aziraphale to open the door, for the angel to fit himself in the frame, light streaming from behind Crowley into the dim interior. Aziraphale feels exactly the same, the same familiar, inviting warmth of him, the same dusty, book and cocoa aroma, the same pale, candyfloss hair, that Crowley has never stopped wanting to touch. He's not sure why he expected the angel to be different somehow, but it's been a very long week, and he's fairly sure his nerves are only doing as they're told through sheer force of will.

"Angel, these are for you." He thrusts the bouquet at him, forcing Aziraphale to either take it with both hands, or let it fall on the steps. He chooses to take it, with a flustered sort of noise that probably isn't for show. Then he eyes Crowley suspiciously over the flowers. He's had a lot of practice eyeing things suspiciously, Crowley suspects he barely has to try.

"What's all this about then?" Aziraphale demands, sounding perfectly confused and just a touch flustered. "You showing up with flowers. What do you want, demon?"

"Always so suspicious," Crowley accuses, as if he's genuinely hurt. "I swear to you, I have no devious or foul intentions. Perhaps I simply saw them and thought of you."

"You saw them and thought of something," Aziraphale mutters, which is going to make Crowley laugh if he's not careful, and ruin this carefully planned moment.

The angel considers Crowley's position of feigned casualness, and hums thoughtfully.

"You are a clever demon, and you're clearly plotting something. I'm not sure if I should accept these, even if they are very beautiful." Aziraphale investigates the bouquet, with an expression that manages to somehow be both suspicious and long-suffering. "I will need to examine them, obviously, for some sort of demonic trick." He lifts a hand and very carefully touches the petals, a terribly pleased smile overtaking his face. "After all, you are known for your wiles."

Oh God.

_Oh thank God, Satan, and the whole damn universe itself._

They did it. They really did it. Their stupid, ridiculous, and completely insane plan somehow worked. Heaven and Hell have actually signed off on their relationship. Two pieces of paper, occult and ethereal, now existed that all but demand that they seduce each other.

Crowley's not sure he remembers how to breathe. Though he's certain he makes a noise of some sort. He forces himself to remain upright, forces his suddenly weak legs to continue to hold him, and not let him slither down the steps like he's forgotten how bones work.

"Heavens, are you going to stand gawping on my doorstep, or are you going to tell me what you want?" Aziraphale complains, his stupidly pert nose now stuck firmly in the air. The angel is enjoying this, the bastard is enjoying it. Though the moment Crowley thinks it he realises that he is as well. Six thousand years of secrets, and lies, and holding it all tightly and firmly hidden, for fear they'd endanger each other, and now they've both somehow managed to win themselves a grand romance.

"I've come to invite you to dinner, angel." The endearment - because that's clearly what it is now, what it has been for so long - sounds overly affectionate, but Crowley doesn't care. Let anyone listening in think he's just that good of an actor. "If you can lower yourself to a demon's company."

Aziraphale looks shocked at the suggestion.

"Dinner? With you?" 

"Anywhere you want to go," Crowley tells him, and means it. He's always meant it.

Aziraphale looks briefly conflicted. "I really am very busy today." It's not supposed to sound like an apology, or to have tones of amusement laced through the words. The angel is supposed to be playing reluctant to be entertained by a demon. Crowley is supposed to have to work for it. If only they could stop being ridiculously in love for five minutes they might make some progress on that. Crowley finds himself smothering another laugh.

"A new sushi restaurant just opened, not far from here. You love sushi, we could go together?" He smiles, and it's the one he practised in the mirror, somewhere between tempting bastard and genuine tease.

Aziraphale blinks, an unexpected redness slowly spreading on his cheeks. It takes Crowley a second to work out that the angel has made himself blush, the beautiful bastard has actually made himself blush, and Crowley's entire body wants to pin him to the door and kiss him senseless, because at this moment he couldn't possibly love him more than this.

"Perhaps - perhaps another time," Aziraphale says uncertainly, before he edges backwards with the bouquet, takes it inside with him, and then promptly shuts the door in Crowley's face.

Another time is very much not a 'no.' It's not Crowley getting whacked by a stupidly large bouquet, and then sent on his way. It cannot, in any way, be considered a smiting.

Hell will consider this _fantastic progress_.

Honestly, Crowley never thought he could ever be happy at the thought of being allowed to squirm in unbearable, frustrated longing. But at the moment he can barely breathe for want of it. It takes a considerable amount of effort to stop his face from smiling - but then he realises that he doesn't have to. He can smile as much as he wants, look at him, look how wily he is, he got an angel to accept a gift, and not entirely refuse the possibility of a dinner-adjacent outing. Not even a whiff of a smiting.

He backs down the steps, already planning out step two. 

Chocolates.

Definitely chocolates.

~

Crowley makes it three weeks before he finds himself holding a box of exquisite, hand-made chocolates, the cover of which is a riot of half-open shells, indulgent praline and caramel spilling out of them, in a way that isn't supposed to be sexual but sort of looks it anyway. It's exactly the sort of confectionery indecency that Aziraphale won't be able to resist. It's absolutely perfect.

He was supposed to wait longer, a month at least, to make the spaces between his attempts believable. But Hell knows him, well enough to expect the unexpected, to assume that he'll be reckless, to think that he'll have been scheming furiously about how to win the angel over. They're not entirely wrong, since Crowley's done nothing but think about Aziraphale for three weeks. They've spend years apart before, centuries even near the beginning, as if it was nothing. But suddenly the world is full of things that he'd always thought were impossible, and Crowley is desperate to get his grubby, demonic fingers all over them.

The fact that Aziraphale is now inclined to let him leaves him feeling exquisitely ruined.

He waits until late morning, a good time for a bookshop to be empty, for there to be no witnesses to his elaborate, chocolate display. He lays the box of chocolates on the passenger seat of the Bentley, and tells it firmly that it will stay there for the entirety of the trip. If it even dares to slide a centimetre towards the footwell there will be Hell to pay. Quite literally.

The bookshop has never looked so beautiful, and perhaps it's just because he no longer has to hide his intention to be here. He no longer has to act like this isn't the most important place in the city. The entirety of Hell could be watching, Crowley hopes they're enjoying it. They're the ones who signed off on it. 

He takes the steps in one stretch, knocks sharply on the door. 

It takes significantly longer for Aziraphale to answer it this time. Though Crowley has made no attempt to hide his aura from within, so the angel knows it's him. The door opens in one cautious movement. Aziraphale appears, and he looks surprisingly different, he's wearing pale blue suit trousers and matching jacket, with a faint pattern in the weave, cream braces hold down a white shirt with a modern collar, which Aziraphale has clearly, stubbornly, forced to adapt to his familiar bow tie. The whole ensemble is more fitted and deliciously flattering, but unexpected and different enough that Crowley rocks on his feet. The angel looks down at him suspiciously, a frown on his face.

"You again," Aziraphale says, though his tone misses reluctant wariness by a mile and settles somewhere around amusement and fondness. Crowley can't resist the smile it pulls onto his face. "Really, Crowley, this is getting ridiculous."

Crowley wants to tell him that he'd missed him, that he's done nothing but think of him, that he'd spent hours watching a very confused chocolatier make chocolates from scratch at three in the morning, just for him, and every second of it was worth it.

"Me again, angel. You underestimate how determined I can be."

Aziraphale spots the box he's holding, which Crowley tilts helpfully so he can get a good look at the indecent display of its contents on the front. The angel inhales through his nose, in a way that's touched, intrigued, and quite suddenly very hungry. Though he clearly refuses to react to any of it.

"Chocolates this time? Really, you must realise how horribly predictable you're being." Aziraphale sighs, looking down his nose at him, with something that Crowley suspects is supposed to be pity. The absolute cheek of it! 

"It's not predictable when I know how fond you are of chocolates, angel." Crowley tuts. "And surely it's not very polite to keep someone who's bought you gifts on the doorstep, is it? The doorstop of your bookshop which is, in fact, open to the public." 

There's a sigh, which sounds pained, and perhaps a little theatrical.

"I suppose you'd better come inside then." Aziraphale says it with all the faux reluctance of a man accepting the inevitable. "But be brief, I have things to do, and no funny business."

Crowley presses a hand to his chest, as if to swear he'll attempt no such thing, then steps in past him, the angel follows, face all careful suspicion. Until he can push the door shut after them both, Crowley continues the slightly wary stalk while he's in view of the windows - drops it completely once they hit the bookshelves.

The angel hasn't moved far from the doorway, watching Crowley circle the shop, noting minor changes, and not so minor changes - 

"You've moved this shelf," he says, surprised, because the angel rarely moves any of the larger furniture. The shop has had the same basic shape for almost two hundred years. He realises, suddenly that the shelf's new position makes it impossible to see from the desk to the backroom from outside. "Oh, that's my clever angel." He tilts his head back to look at him, can't help the smile, which is exceedingly undemonic.

Aziraphale finally lets go of the door and joins him.

"I've missed you terribly," he says simply, as if he'd been waiting days to say it.

Crowley's throat flexes on a noise. "Yeah, angel, I've missed you too." Honestly, Aziraphale needs to buy a phone so Crowley can at least text him his scathing opinions on things, at least until they can believably spend more time together. 

He sets down the box of chocolates and pushes it towards him.

"These are still for you, predictable or not."

Aziraphale looks far more enthusiastic at the gift of chocolates now he's inside, where no one can see. A grin stretches across his face and he gives one hand a squeeze with the other.

"You spoil me, you've always spoiled me," Aziraphale tells him, untying the ribbon, and lifting the lid. The whole shop immediately smells like chocolate. "Oh, Crowley, these look exquisite." 

Crowley hums agreement, rather than admit how much he enjoys seeing to Aziraphale's needs. How much he hopes he's the only one who ever gets to see to his needs. He can't tell if the angel chooses one at random, or makes a carefully thought out decision about where he's going to start. Either way, Aziraphale is biting into a chocolate shell almost immediately.

"New outfit?" Crowley offers with a frown. "What's that about?"

Aziraphale makes an annoyed noise around what smells like an orange creme, as if he was hoping Crowley wouldn't notice.

"I'm supposed to be appealing to a demon," Aziraphale reminds him, though he's clearly less than happy about it. "Gabriel insisted I'm afraid."

Crowley gives him a head tilt of sympathy. Because Aziraphale's wardrobe had been important to him. Hell hadn't imposed any helpful suggestions on Crowley, they rarely have done in the past, it's always been understood that he knows what he's doing. It might be the only reason he got to plead his case in the first place, rather than being thrown into a pit for even suggesting it.

"Ugh, give it a few years and he'll stop paying attention." Crowley's not going to say any more, but he's been feeling particularly brave lately. "The braces I like though."

Aziraphale considers his expression while he works his way through something filled with praline, Crowley can taste it on the air.

"They're wider than I remember them being, and they do odd things to my trousers," Aziraphale complains eventually, but in the way that suggests he's prepared to get used to it.

They don't have time for wine, or a long conversation, or for Crowley to sprawl out on the sofa in the back and watch Aziraphale, while he potters among the shelves. But they have time to work up to that, they have all the time in the world now. 

They take the ten minutes they do have to share their experiences with their superiors. To see if all their careful planning and defences had prepared them for the reality. To admit to the ways they bent the truth, or broke it entirely, trying to coax Beelzebub and Gabriel to sign their requests. 

"I'm going to invite you out to dinner, next Friday," Crowley tells him. "Make room in your schedule."

"I'm suddenly unexpectedly free that evening," Aziraphale says immediately. "Though you realise that in a few minutes I'm going to shoo you out of the front door with a crushed box." The angel's fingers pluck the last caramel out of the crinkly interior. "It can't do to let Hell think I'm quite so easily won."

"Don't pretend you don't love the idea of playing hard to get," Crowley shoots back. "Making me work for it."

Aziraphale huffs something that's far less insulted than it is annoyed at Crowley being absolutely right. The angel had worried, at the start, because Crowley had been forced to work for it for so very long already, with little hope that Aziraphale felt the same, or that anything between them would ever be possible. But Crowley had assured him that this is different. This is everything.

"Yes, yes, we both agreed to the schedule," Aziraphale admits. "If I remember, you were the one who insisted on it."

"Sure, remind me that I'm the one -" _Blue-balling myself_ , Crowley stops the phrase before it sneaks out. He doesn't really mean it like that, it's just a phrase. But they're taking it slow, they have permission now, it's not hopeless any more. It's not the same.

He grunts and stretches a hand out for the box.

"Pass it over then, I'm sure I could work up a good head of vexed frustration, while I pretend that's a full box of chocolates you've cruelly rejected, and you haven't secretly scarfed the lot."

"How dare you," Aziraphale says with a laugh, after swallowing the last one, then sucks chocolate off his thumb, in a way that Crowley finds extremely distracting. 

Instead of passing it over Aziraphale shuts it neatly, then reties the ribbon.

"Appearances, my dear, are everything, as you're well aware." 

Crowley's so busy looking at the chocolate box he misses the fact that Aziraphale has rounded the table. He doesn't miss the hands in his jacket, suddenly crushing him to the bookshelf behind him, so the angel can press his desperate, chocolate-flavoured mouth over Crowley's. There's no pause, no time for the cracked, eager noise he makes, before Aziraphale is pushing his mouth open and claiming ownership of it. His tongue is wet and sweet, all caramel slide and demand, and Crowley's knees threaten to give out completely - leaving him pinned to the ladder of books behind him, messily kissing him back. Because this is exactly what he'd wanted, what he'd needed for the last three weeks. There's a whine building in his throat, and warm hands pushing into his hair. Aziraphale only breaks long enough to breathe his name, as if Crowley is the one who's tempted them both. His fingers tighten in the hair at the back of his neck and Crowley chokes out a noise like a wounded animal. Before the angel is kissing him again, greedy, desperate presses of open mouth that Crowley takes and takes - fingers slipped in under Aziraphale's jacket, fisted tight in the warm material of his new shirt, pulling him closer, knuckles pressed to his body.

It's a perfect moment of delicious adoration, until they part, breathing hard, pressed close and tight, both tasting of expensive chocolate.

"I missed you," Crowley tells him fiercely. "I thought they'd said no. I thought one of us would fail. I never thought - angel, I never thought we could win."

"You are a wily demon," Aziraphale breathes against his cheek, with an almost unbearable devotion. It draws a helpless moan out of Crowley, because he is - of course he is - how else could he ever have managed to have this for himself. 

Crowley presses his sticky mouth against Aziraphale's, one last time. Before Aziraphale carefully scrunches the empty chocolate box in half, and presses it firmly against Crowley's chest.

"I love you terribly and completely," Aziraphale tells him. Then he fists an impossibly strong hand in Crowley's jacket, tugs open the bookshop door, and tosses him dramatically out of it.

Crowley manages not to fall on his arse, by virtue only of his own flexibility and the front of the Bentley. He's left standing, dishevelled and breathless, holding an empty, broken box and still tasting orange and caramel and _angel_ on his tongue. He thinks about the possibility that this could go on for _years_.

He's never been so happy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Multivoice Podfic] The Best Of Both Worlds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29137971) by [CompassRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompassRose/pseuds/CompassRose), [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan), [Gorillazgal86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorillazgal86/pseuds/Gorillazgal86), [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx/pseuds/Podfixx), [semperfiona_podfic (semperfiona)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperfiona/pseuds/semperfiona_podfic), [Tipsy_Kitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipsy_Kitty/pseuds/Tipsy_Kitty)




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